


Her Name is True North

by Kaatiba



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Bittersweet, Canon Compliant, Childbirth, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Future Fic, Gaelic Language, Gen, Healing, Parallels, Past Character Death, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Relationship(s), Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Postpartum Depression, Pregnancy, Recovery, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, Sibling Love, Stark Sisters, Winterfell, jon comes home, next generation starks, the pack survives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2020-06-24 22:24:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19732972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaatiba/pseuds/Kaatiba
Summary: Sansa Stark represents the North, in more way than one.OR It's far from over for Jonsa





	1. Return to Zion

_“You’re my **true north**. No compass would point me in any other direction but to you.” _

_―_ _Kristen Hope Mazzola_

\-----------

Sansa is in her chambers when she gets the raven. 

The maester barely knocks before barging, letting her know it’s something urgent. No one in the castle is ever less than respectful to the Northern liberator and Queen. 

He looks pale as he hands her the piece of parchment. She recognizes the handwriting almost immediately. Her own hand starts to shake, but her voice is steady as she says, “I’ll be needing my quill.”

She stands up and credits her knees for not giving out. Her face is placid. Her heart breaks as it beats then comes back together again. 

“Arya should know.”

\-----------

A fortnight later the gate to Winterfell lifts with plenty of creaking and shouting, until a cloaked figure on horseback enters. 

Suddenly the endlessly loud and noisy courtyard is quiet and still as death. And wouldn’t they know, since the dead had walked that very earth not 5 years before. 

The figure pauses, head turning left and right, searching. Slowly, the noise seeps back in, whispers riding the cold breeze. Only the few children left to play on the castle’s grounds seem unbothered. They’re children of winter, but they’re too young to remember.

The North remembers. Winterfell remembers. She remembers. 

The figure in black dismounts. He’s turned the wrong direction. He doesn’t see the moment the Queen of the North, The Red Wolf of Winterfell as they whisper in the village, steps onto the balcony where Ned and Catelyn Stark once stood. 

She waits, and her bated breath plays in the air in front of her. Finally, he turns around. Dark brown meets icy blue, and the courtyard melts away.

Suddenly, they’re back on a dock in King’s Landing, eyes burning with blazing sunlight and bitter sorrow.

Suddenly, they’re at Castle Black, a lifetime past, roles reversed, as this time it’s Sansa Stark who glides down the staircase, trancelike, and stops just short of Jon Snow, suddenly unsure. She inhales slowly.

He looks at her like a man seeing a sunrise for the first time.

This time it’s the former Lord Commander, King in the North, the White Wolf, the rightful heir to the seven kingdoms, the bastard of Winterfell, the Wildling Prince, that springs forward to throw his arms around her. 

And suddenly, it’s just Jon and Sansa. They’re both heirs to countless titles, rumors, legacies, but in this moment, they are just two people that can’t hold each other tight enough. Sansa nuzzles her cheek into his shoulder like she did during their first reunion, and he feels the hard metal bite of her diadem. 

He remembers himself. He remembers who she is to them. He lets go, cheeks burning. 

“Apologies, My Grace-”

His voice hasn’t changed, and Sansa feels tears start to form in her eyes. 

“Jon,” she stops him. She frowns, tentative and searching.

And for the first time in 5 years, Jon Snow feels tethered. After 5 years in exile, after wandering through the wilderness, after dying and literally coming back to life, Jon snow looks at her and for the first time in his life, he feels reborn. 

“Sansa,” he whispers, reverence permeating his face. 

She lets out a short, broken laugh, and gestures towards the castle, “Come inside, you must be frigid,” she gestures towards one of her ladies, “if you could start preparing a hearth and a warm bath for our guest.” 

Night is falling, his journey was long and harrowing, but Jon Snow looks at Sansa’s red hair, half lit in the firelight, and all he sees is sunrise.

_Beautiful artwork done by:[https://wolvesofspring.tumblr.com](https://wolvesofspring.tumblr.com/tagged/wolves+art/page/4)_


	2. His Life Begins Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He made his last vow in the Godswood, but somehow this feels more sacred."

_"Forgiveness. Can you imagine? Forgiveness. Can you imagine?"_

-"It's Quiet Uptown", Hamilton

\------------------

They find their way back to each other slowly. Where they were once an instant, unexpected spark, they are now a simmering fire, just starting to rekindle. 

A lifetime ago, Jon Snow watched his former lady sister choke down ale and they laughed by the hearth, feeling the alcohol spool warmth in their guts, and slowly but surely, letting each other’s presence do the same 

Now, the alcohol was a familiar, comforting burn down the back of Sansa’s throat. Jon is the one out of place, drinking wine from a cup not hewn from bone and sitting in front of flames not made by a campfire in the wild north. 

For the first time since he arrived, Sansa is not looking at him. She is seemingly enraptured by the flames, and they dance in the reflection of her eyes. He cannot tell what she is thinking, and it bothers him. 

This, at least, has not changed. Back at Castle Black, he’d watched Sansa’s profile in the dimly lit room and felt like he’d touched an open flame, the way every nerve in his body seemed to wake up. Now is no different.

She has changed, but her beauty has not. Sansa’s hair always had a way of reflecting her disposition. Where he’d grown used to her intricate, regal, and smart braided hairdos, a reflection of both her Northern roots and time spent in the South, her rich red hair is now unplaited and loose. It drifts over her shoulders casually, and disappears behind her shoulders where it presumably reaches her lower back. 

The last woman he held in his arms had silver hair coiled tight like a viper, not a strand out of place. He hasn’t held anyone since then, he has not deserved to. He looks away from Sansa’s profile. 

He knows he wants her. He knows he loves her, always has. 

He’d slept with Daenerys Targaryen even after figuring out she was his paternal aunt. In this lifetime, the notion of wanting someone he once considered a relative does not bother him. 

But he’d killed Dany. The woman he’d made love to. In cold blood. He’d watched as the life left her once bright blue eyes. He’d wanted a Queen, then loved her, then murdered her. No matter what Daenerys's sins had been, he was the only one responsible for the sin of stabbing her in the heart while holding her in a lover's embrace.

He was born a bastard, lived a hero, but would die a Queenslayer.

Now, he looks upon a Queen he has wanted since before others knew to call her by that title. He looks at her stunning bright blue eyes, and he swears he will fall on his own sword before ever letting anyone hurt her. Before he lets _himself_ hurt her more than he already has.

He does not deserve her. He did not deserve Daenerys. He is just now convincing himself he deserves the air he breathes, the food he eats, the sound of Sansa’s laugh in the courtyard. 

He is not worthy of this Queen before him, but he’s already lived through hell, and he will not pretend he doesn't still love her with every last bit of his wretched, tattered soul. 

Finally, she turns back to him. Tears fill her eyes, but they do not fall just yet. 

“You didn’t listen to me, Jon.”

“Sansa-” he whispers, but falters, nodding. “I know.”

“No, you don’t know.”

And Jon can’t help but let out a broken chuckle, “You know nothing, Jon Snow” he spits out, vision filled with yet another lover who died in his arms. 

Sansa turns a piercing glare at him. “You don’t know what it was like to watch the man I-” she pauses “to see my...family bend the knee to a foreign queen, to let his backbone dissolve as he took her… took her to his bed.” She takes a large gulp of wine, “you betrayed me Jon Snow. And then you betrayed and killed the very woman whom you let ruin you.”

Her eyes are feral, and there is nothing he can say to defend himself.

“I trusted you, I….I loved you, and when it mattered most, you did not do the same for me. The things you have done..they’re unforgivable.”

Jon Snow just bows his head, always heavy on his shoulders, the same man who happily rotted in a locked room in the Red Keep 5 years prior. 

“Look at me, Jon Snow.”

He does.

“I want you to look into my eyes when I say this.”

He does, and he thinks he would fine if this was the last thing he ever saw, her eyes furious and untempered and all-encompassing. _I would wield the sword myself if she asked me to forfeit my life right here and now_ , he thinks. 

“The things you have done...they are unforgivable.” She takes a deep, shuddering breath,

“But I forgive you anyways.”

He looks up so suddenly he is dizzy, but now his head is dizzy from the sight of her lovely pale face, now wet with angry tears.

“Do you hear me, Jon Snow?” he voice is fearsome, “I will never forget, and neither will you, but I am your only Queen here and now, and I pardon you, and I order you not to die and leave me again.”

His first knee hits the ground without his consent, and the other follows quickly. He is now kneeling in front of the only woman he should have ever bent the knee to. He is bending the knee in the North, the only place he has ever truly belonged to. 

He remembers taking the vows of the Night's Watch, his brother, Sam Tarly next to him in the snow in front of a Weirwood. The snow had been cold, much colder than the stone floor he kneels on now.

Ghost, who had been dozing off in the corner of the room, pads over to stand by him now. 

_Hear my words and bear witness to my vow. Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post. I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the shield that guards the realms of men. I pledge my life and honor to the Night's Watch, for this night and all the nights to come._

“Sansa.” The way he says it is a vow in itself, but he continues, for this is the most important oath, vow, pledge of fealty he will ever make. 

“Hear my words and bear witness to my vow.” Sansa nods, stoic again, to let him know she is listening intently. 

“The sun rises,” indeed, the early hours of the morning are melting away just outside their chamber, “and now my life begins again.”

“Jon-” He just looks up at her with tears in his eyes, and she is silent. She will hear him out. They both know how important these words are. 

“I shall take no Queen but you, roam no lands but the ones you command me to, father no children you do not wish me to. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory but the glory of devoting my life to you. I shall live and die by your side. I am the white wolf. I am the shield that guards the North and its only worthy Queen.”

The first rays of the rising sun the room, and the fire is dying, but the room is warm enough. 

“I pledge my life and honor, whatever is left of it, to you, Sansa Stark of Winterfell,” tears are openly streaming down his face, “The rightful Queen in the North, for this night and all nights to come.”

Ghost lets out a howl, Jon takes a shuddering breath, and Sansa steps forward.

“If you’ll have me,” his voice finally cracks, and he bows his head once more.

Suddenly, her fingers find his face and guide his chin up so he is looking up at her, brilliant as the sun. The lines of her body are hard, unflinching, stable, safe. Her expression is soft and compassionate and tender like it was when she was a girl listening to fairytales. It is delicate and attentive as it is when she is focused on her embroidery, careful not to put a stitch out of place. 

He made his last vow in the Godswood, but somehow this feels more sacred.

“And now, Jon Snow, your watch begins.”

\-------------------------

She leads him back to her bed, and they sleep together, just sleep.

She insists he get whatever rest he can get before the rest of the castle wakes up, and neither of them want to be separated in that moment, both too vulnerable to part.

They lay down facing each other on top of the fur covers. Ghost stretches out between them, offering his body heat. 

No further words are shared between them that night. No further words are needed.


	3. And Together We Mend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just two broken people learning how to heal together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're interested, this is my Jonsa playlist which is sort of my inspiration for this fic (and vice versa):  
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0kwSeHhIyedaQpWdO0JjAc

_“Just like there's always time for pain, there's always time for_ **_healing_ ** _.”_

― Jennifer Brown

  
\---------------

Months pass. He does not break his vow. 

He holds no titles. He is simply the Queen’s consort. He is happy with that. He’d never wanted any of the titles he’d been given anyways. For the first time in his life, he is happy being a Snow. 

He holds no lands. Sometimes his Wildling heart or desire to flee painful memories lead him to roam the Northern lands, explore, venture out, but he always returns home to Winterfell. To her.

Sometimes, Sansa joins him. They’ll pack a satchel of bread, cheese, and apples, then saddle up their horses and ride out. Sometimes it reminds him of his time spent with Daenerys flying to hidden waterfalls and soaring over the snowy landscape.

But he enjoys staying low to the ground these days. Ghost running ahead, Sansa, on her lovely white steed at his side. Grounding him. When she sees him slipping away sometimes, she challenges him to race.

The Sansa of his childhood would never do something so unladylike, so Arya-like he might say, but the woman before him is no docile little lady anymore. She is a queen, an alpha of a pack, a red wolf, and he happily follows behind her, sorrow blown away by the wind as he trails her and her flowing red locks. 

Sometimes she still plaits her hair. Sometimes, she leaves it loose. He cannot say which way he likes better. He never gets tired of looking at her no matter what she does. 

\---------------------------

One day, they find themselves in a little thawed out glen during one of their spontaneous rides. Sansa can never be gone too long, her people need her. She has duties, responsibilities, but today she has allowed herself the privilege of spending the entire afternoon with Jon. 

Besides, things are going well. The long night, the long winters, the wars are all over. Spring has come. She presides over a prosperous and independent North. The Northerners call it a new era, The Era of Queens. Sansa brushes away such grandiose flattery and focuses on the present since it’s all they’re guaranteed. 

She still worries. Still remembers. She is still haunted by the past. Jon is not the only one who feels the need to escape sometimes. 

Sometimes Winterfell, her birthplace, her palace, her duty, her home, also feels like her grave. Sometimes she remembers the feeling of uselessness and fear and claustrophobia of being trapped in the crypts during the wight attack. 

She remembers not knowing whether she’d ever see Jon or Arya or the sky again. She remembers Tyrion, a ghost from her past, taking her hand and kissing it.

It had been a kiss goodbye. 

She’d been ready to die. And for the first time in her life, she’d wielded a dagger, she’d defended her body with a weapon besides her wits, and she’d killed the undead. 

Not just any undead, but her dead family, her ancestors, the bones that made up Winterfell.

Sometimes, in her nightmares, it was her mother or father or Robb or Rickon who were buried in the crypts. Who came back to life just to tear her apart, their rotting hands grabbing at her flesh.

Other nights the relentless grabbing hands are Ramsay’s or the men who’d tried to gang rape her in King’s Landing during the riot so many years ago.

The North remembers. Her flesh remembers. 

Nights like those she wakes up screaming in a cold sweat to find a large white direwolf with red eyes licking the tears from her cheeks. She feels more than sees Jon beside her. 

“Can I touch you?” he always asks. Sometimes, brushing her hair off her forehead or holding her hand calms her down. 

But on nights where Ramsay Bolton is a ghost in their bed, he knows it does more harm than good. Nights like those, he just talks to her. He fills the smothering silence with soft murmured words.

He cannot sing her gentle lullabies like she sometimes does for him on his bad nights, but he still gives her words, his voice, his presence, which she mutely clings to. She lets it smother out the echo of her own pained gasps that reverberate through her head. 

They have had sex. Many times. And it’s good, but it is not enough to fix the parts of her that have been broken, replacing bad memories with good ones only goes so far. The sex is good, but it’s not where the healing happens. 

It is in these moments in the dead of night that they are at their most intimate, that she is at her most vulnerable, and when she lets Jon fill up her soul and not just her body.

Last night had been one of those nights. 

Now, as they sit in the shady glen, the horses chewing the fresh wet grass, Ghost splashing in a nearby creek, her body begins to feel like her own again.

He is watching her because he always is. 

“You can now.” _touch her_ , she means, but of course he understands. 

He simply scoots forward and kisses her forehead like he did on the ramparts after taking back Winterfell. Only this time he moves down and leaves another firm kiss on her lips, warming them where they’d gotten numb on the ride. 

She leans into him, and he does not hesitate to put his arm around her, let her sink into him. Ghost returns from the water’s edge, and jealous of Jon, tries to cuddle up next to Sansa. 

Jon chuckles, “Traitor. Can’t believe my own direwolf prefers you.”

Sansa shoves his arm playfully before moving to scratch Ghost’s ear. 

“Can you blame him?”

“No,” Jon sighs, “I can’t.” 

Sansa smiles peacefully, closing her eyes.

“I could stay like this forever.” 

She doesn’t know how that phrases pierces his chest. How it reminds him of Daenerys holding him in place, saying, “We could stay here a thousand years.”

At the time that thought had suffocated him, and he’d kissed his way out of a real response. 

Now he plays with her hair, knowing she does not demand a response, but still says, “I’d like that very much.”

They don’t feel the need to kiss after that. They have nothing to prove and plenty of time. 

__

_Beautiful Artwork done by:<https://wolvesofspring.tumblr.com/> _


	4. She-Wolves Reunited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sansa finally pushes forward to embrace her little sister in a hug. And Arya, fierce warrior, assassin, explorer, slayer of the Night King, leans into it like a child."
> 
> #StarkSistersForever #LetThePackBeTogetherGoddammit

_ “A  _ **_sister_ ** _ is a dearest friend, a closest enemy, and an angel at the time of need.” _

― Debasish Mridha

\------------------------

It’s only a few moons after that when Arya finally comes to visit. 

She and Sansa keep in touch as much as possible, but there’s only so much a raven can tell. Sansa told Arya about Jon’s arrival months ago when Arya was off somewhere west of the Sunset Sea. 

Sansa doesn’t blame Arya for not being able to rush back from the edge of the world, but she misses her terribly. 

When she’d told her the news about Jon coming home, Arya had replied, “So my dear brother isn’t as dense as he seems.” Sansa noted the use of “my” instead of “our”. 

Other than that one little word, Sansa has no idea how Arya will react to the shift in Jon and Sansa’s relationship. Sansa fears Arya will hate and resent her, and they’ll lose all the progress they've made in their relationship. 

After all, they are Starks, not Targaryens. They do not take on siblings as lovers.

But they now knew that Jon was not her biological brother. And in truth, they had not been raised as brother and sister. Sansa, always emulating of Catelyn Stark, had kept Jon Snow at a distance growing up. He had been nought but a bastard to her. 

And now he was, well he was so much more than she could put into words. At least not words that would fit in a raven’s message. 

So Sansa waits anxiously to tell Arya about their relationship in person, assuming she won’t hear about it from the gossip in Wintertown where she always chooses to lurk before entering the castle grounds. 

Sansa is in the Godswood when she finally arrives. 

She had stood in this same spot years ago when she told Littlefinger, just another one of her abusers and manipulators, that she didn’t pray anymore. That she was “done with all that.” 

But lately, she’s started returning more frequently, and maybe she sometimes looks at the face of the Weirwood tree and tries to feel  _ something _ . 

She no longer has the mindless, pure, unwavering faith she had as a girl, but she’s nostalgic for the feeling of purpose she once felt standing before the gods of her ancestors. 

_ Were you there with me? _ She wants to ask sometimes. _ All those times I could have, should have died, but didn’t..Were you there in the South when I gained independence for my people? Were you there when the undead came? Were you there when my husband raped me? Were you there when I was coronated as Queen in the North? _

Sansa runs her hand over her stomach, suddenly feeling queasy. Perhaps, it is time for her to return to the castle and get some rest, see how the stable renovations are coming. 

When she turns around, she sees Arya, standing there watching her. Arya and Jon, the two people she loves most in the world now, always watching her with dark and mysterious eyes.

“Arya,” Sansa smiles happily. She is no longer surprised by the way Arya manages to sneak up on her. 

Arya, as usual, chooses to smirk instead of smile, but her eyes betray her happiness. 

“Nice crown, it suits you.”

Sansa instinctively traces the metal with her fingers.

“The young wolves,” she whispers, thinking about Robb and Rickon, “and some Tully scales.”

Arya nods. “They’d be proud of you.”

Sansa pushes back the urge to cry. “Thank you, Arya.”

“And Father.” Sansa nods.

“And me.”

At that, Sansa finally pushes forward to embrace her little sister in a hug. And Arya, fierce warrior, assassin, explorer, slayer of the Night King, leans into it like a child. Sansa marvels at how her sister can be so hard and soft at the same time, but then she figures she is somewhat the same way. 

Here they are, the Stark sisters, made from the soft coats of Direwolves and fearsome, sharp teeth and claws to match. 

All too soon, they separate. Sansa checks Arya up and down. There’s a new scar on her chin. She is much tanner, her hair is long enough to go past her shoulders. Sansa teases it with her fingers where it lays in a messy ponytail and _tsks_. 

Arya rolls her eyes. “I’m not going to let you braid it.” This time, it’s Sansa who smirks. 

They both know Arya won’t deny her sister the pleasure of playing with her hair. And neither will comment on how much Arya will end up enjoying the feeling of her older sister brushing out her hair the way their mother used to do for them.

Arya had never been able to hold still back then, but something restless inside of her has been quieted since then. She’s learned to embrace the slowness of certain moments. 

She has traveled to exotic, distant lands, met countless people, had amazing adventures, but now she is back home in Winterfell with her beloved sister and brother in an independent North, and she is in no rush to leave again anytime soon. 

“Come,” says Sansa “Jon will be so thrilled to see you!”

Arya, grabs her gloved hand, holding her in place, staring down at Sansa’s navel with a faraway look in her eye.

“I sense we have a lot to talk about.”

She nails Sansa with eyes that are far wiser than they have any right to be, even five years on from their last meeting. 

“Aye,” she says the way Father used to, “But first, supper.” 

And with that, the two she-wolves head back to Winterfell, reunited at last. 


	5. A Dream of Spring Realized

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "She thinks she is more excited to be alive than she ever has been before. "

“ **Hope** is the thing with feathers 

That perches in the soul 

And sings the tune without the words 

And never stops at all.” 

― Emily Dickinson

\-----------------------

Sansa leads Arya to Jon and gives them privacy to have their own reunion and heart to heart. 

Sansa hadn’t been the only one with a bone to pick. Jon Snow had made a lot of mistakes. And while both Stark girls loved him enough to forgive, they weren’t going to pretend to forget. 

After all, communication is key. Sansa can’t help but wonder if Jon Snow had communicated more with her, had listened to her, if the events that led to Daenerys’s murder would never have happened. If the people of King’s Landing would have been spared a fiery death. 

But none of that matters now. They’ve moved on as best they can. And Sansa tries to focus on the future. 

She holds a hand to her stomach as she stares out across the ramparts. 

\----------------------

They’re in Wintertown when Arya brings it up. 

Since becoming Queen, Sansa made it a point to go out and regularly visit the smallfolk, her people. 

She refused to ever be like Cersei, locked away in a high tower, seeing her citizens as nothing more than pawns in a great game. She also didn’t want to be like Daenerys, and start viewing herself as some kind of deity, distanced from the rest of mankind.

While Sansa had learned valuable things from both those women, she did not want to repeat their mistakes. So she tried to meet and understand the people who made up her kingdom.

Sometimes it reminded her of how Margaery used to interact with the smallfolk. Margaery, another fierce, independent woman Sansa had learned from, even loved. Definitely one she missed. But she too had had an agenda. 

She is drawn from her reverie by her sister’s voice.

“They love you, you know,” she sounds thoughtful. 

“Hmm?” Sansa hums then follows her sister’s eyes. Arya is watching the small group of children whom Sansa had been playing with just moments ago. 

One of the little girls had brought her a crumpled flower, one of the first of spring, and offered it to her shyly. She had accepted it gratefully, and in return gave the girl a piece of sugar candy from the small satchel she always carried on visits for this exact reason. 

The girl had laughed excitedly, and even dared to pet the top of Ghost’s head.

Sansa enjoyed bringing him along with her. Not only was he more than enough protection, he also inspired awe and excitement in the villagers. There weren’t that many magical beings left in their world anymore. The years of dragons were over. 

Sansa smiled fondly at the group of children who had ended up plaiting her hair and taking turns looking for more wildflowers to braid in. 

“Then it is well reciprocated.” 

She remembers when she was younger and thought to herself _If I am ever a queen, I'll make them love me_. Now, it had become her pleasure, not just a way to ensure loyalty. She’d learned, both as queen and in her relationship with Jon, that love was just as much about giving as it was receiving. 

They pass by a fruit vendor. The crops have all come in well this year. The woman excitedly hands Sansa the prettiest apple she has and curtsies quickly. Sansa accepts it graciously and tries to hand the woman a bit of coin, but the woman refuses. 

“Northern freedom is worth all the coin in the world, My Grace.” 

Sansa watches as Arya, ever stealthy, manages to plant a coin or two in the woman’s satchel as they walk away.

Sansa takes a bite of the apple, appreciates its sweet crispness, then feels the sudden urge to gag. She swallows the gift down anyways, then hands it to her sister without a word. Arya takes it with a raised eyebrow and munches it happily. 

They meander back to Winterfell, Ghost by their side, and an enthusiastic crowd of villagers waving farewell to their beloved Queen and the Hero of the Battle of Winterfell. 

They’re quiet as they enjoy the view of the sweeping hills between the town and the keep. Pale green grass is finally visible, with patches of ice still peppering the landscape. The sun warms Sansa’s cheeks, but the breeze keeps it chilly enough for her to wear her furs. 

Then, out of nowhere, “You’re going to make a great mother.”

Sansa jolted to a stop like she’d reached the end of a tether.

Her mouth dropped in shock, but her hand flew to her abdomen subconsciously. 

“Yes,” she says, dropping it slowly, “one day, eventually, I’ll have to birth an heir to carry the Stark name. Unless of course you’re interested.”

Arya ignores her weak attempt at a joke.

“I mean now. You’re going to be a great mother. I know, Sansa, I’m not stupid,” a hint of petulance creeps into Arya’s voice like when they squabbled as children. 

“I-” Sansa feels a hint of panic seizing her mind. “I haven't even..” she hasn’t even gotten around to telling Arya about her and Jon, “Jon and I, we-” She struggles for words, “You’ve been gone for a long time and-”

“Sansa,” Arya places a gloved hand on Sansa’s where she hadn’t realized it had started shaking. “I know. I’ve known for a while now. I-” Now Arya is the one searching for the right words, “I love you both. And I’m happy for you.” 

Arya pointedly looks at Sansa’s stomach then back into her eyes, Stark brown and Tully blue meeting. 

“I’m happy for you,” she repeats more emphatically. 

Sansa wraps Arya in another hug, shorter than their last, but just as needed.

“Thank you,” Sansa breathes out a breath she hadn’t realized was stuck in her throat. 

“Does he know?” Arya asks, he of course, being Jon. 

Sansa shakes her head, still smiling. “I wasn’t even sure myself until this week, and I didn’t want to give him false hope.” 

Sansa recalls one night where she’d dreamed of having a horrible miscarriage, and in the dream, Jon kneeled by her bedside, covered in her blood, screaming. When he gently woke her up, she couldn’t stand to look at him.

The memory of the nightmare darkens her mood.

Arya misplaces the source of her anxiety, “I won’t tell him. It’s up to you when and how you choose to do so.”

Sansa squeezes her arm. 

“You’re going to be a great Aunt.”

And Sansa knows she’s right. She can already envision Arya teaching a small red headed boy or dark haired girl how to sword fight, how to ride, how to cause trouble throughout the castle. 

She can see Jon, rough and scarred hands, cradling a child in his arms, murmuring to it softly, like he does to her after bad dreams. He has seen so much violence, yet he is still so tender when he holds the things he loves. 

She thinks of her lady mother, of how Winterfell was in her childhood, filled with the laughter and cries of children, she thinks of little Rickon, of the children her brothers will never have, she thinks of wolf packs and pups. 

She thinks she is more excited to be alive than she ever has been before. 

They return to Winterfell. Behind Sansa, the snow melts, and daisies crawl from the earth.


	6. Yours, As You are Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "This is for them. For Jon and Sansa. To pledge themselves to each other before the gods of their ancestors. The Gods that Sansa, despite her best efforts, is starting to believe in again."

“When we **love** , we always strive to become better than we are. When we strive to become better than we are, everything around us becomes better too.” 

― Paulo Coelho,

\-----------------------------

Sansa spends an entire week catching up with Arya and steeling herself to give Jon the news. The morning she finally chooses to is bright, and birds sing outside. 

Last night, she and Jon had made love, and in the moment something had clicked for Sansa. 

Not that she’d truly doubted it before, but looking into his eyes she’d known that this was the man that she loved, that she wanted to start a family with, to make Winterfell a home, and not just a castle, with.

And if, Gods forbid, something happened during the pregnancy, she knew he was the one she wanted by her side to get through it. 

Now, she and Arya and Jon are breaking their fast together in her solar. Sansa herself only picks at her food, still plagued by morning sickness. 

Arya eyes her from across the table, stands up in one swift movement, and announces, “I’m going to go spar.”

Jon wipes his mouth and looks up, “Would you like company?” his voice is still gruff from sleep, and Sansa is hopelessly endeared.

It must show on her face because Arya looks playfully disgusted and amused when she turns to Sansa.

“Next time, brother. I believe your Queen has some words for you.” And with that she sashays away.

Sansa clears her throat as Jon turns to her, eyebrows scrunched in that stupidly adorable way of his. 

“Arya is right..There’s something I need to tell you, Jon.”

Suddenly, she feels restless and moves to stand by the window. She sees some of the birds she heard flying around, and it gives her some strength. _I myself am no little bird anymore_.

“Is something wrong?” Jon immediately assumes the worst and stands to go to her, concern etched into the lines of his face.

He turns her around and cradles her face in his hands when she takes too long to answer.

She realizes her eyes are watering. “Sansa?”

She takes one of the hands holding her cheek and moves it down to cover her stomach, folding her own hand over it and squeezing softly. 

“Jon, you’re going to be a father,” she whispers.

And Jon Snow, the man who has seen dead men rise, dragons fly, and cities fall, looks more shocked than she’s ever seen him look before. His mouth opens and closes like a fish, and he ogles her stomach as if he can see the child if he looks hard enough. 

“Are you...Are you sure?”

Sansa barely refrains from rolling her eyes, but she laughs weakly.

“Would I tell you if I wasn’t?”

And now Jon is grinning.

Sansa sees Jon smile more than he used to these days, but she’s never seen his face light up the way it does now. It rivals the radiance of the full moon. 

His hands move back up to cradle her face, and he pulls her into a searing kiss. He pulls back, and starts stroking her hair, hands moving with an uncontrollable, excited energy. 

“The heir of Winterfell,” she whispers to herself, hugging her still mainly flat stomach. 

And suddenly, Jon’s hands still, and his smile wanes. 

“Jon?”

“Sansa, what if I’m not-” He takes a deep breath and won’t meet her eyes, “I’m not...I don’t deserve-”

Sansa takes a hold of his chin, forcing him to meet her eyes. 

“You are a good man, Jon Snow. You’re past is the past. This child, Our child,” she moves his hand to her stomach once more.

“He or she can be our future. You once vowed to me you’d never father any children I did not wish you to. Well, my wish is that you father this child, and mold it in your image.”

Her tears escape her as she remembers the words her Father once spoke to her: _When you’re old enough, I will make you a match with a high lord who’s worthy of you, someone brave and gentle and strong._

“Because Jon Snow, you are worthy. You are brave and gentle and strong.”

Jon’s eyes are wet now too.

“You are a good man. And I know you will make an excellent father.”

Jon rests his forehead against hers and breathes deeply.

“If it takes me a thousand lifetimes, I will spend the rest of my days trying to deserve you. I once made a vow to you, to serve you as my Queen for the rest of my days. Now, I make a new vow to our unborn child, to love them unconditionally.”

Sansa kisses his forehead,

“I know.”

\----------------------------

That night, she and Jon slip away to the Godswood. 

Only Arya notices them leave the Great Hall earlier than usual, and she simply raises her wine glass to them in salute, knowing smirk on her face. 

It is dark out, but they can see by the light of the moon, which now reminds Sansa of Jon’s smile. She decides she likes the way pure, unadulterated joy looks on him and will endeavor to see it again.

They stop in front of the Weirwood. Their mouths look like chimneys, breaths visible in the cold. 

They smile at each other.

“Ready?” Sansa asks. she has chosen to wear her hair loose and unadorned like she did the night of her coronation.

“Yes,” Jon replies. He has trimmed his beard and tied his long dark curls back like a true Northerner. 

They breathe deeply, link hands, then together they speak, “Father. Smith. Warrior. Mother. Maiden. Crone. Stranger. I am yours as you are mine, from this day, until the end of my days.”

Afterwards, they kiss and hug and stand out in the cold before it becomes unbearable.

There hadn’t been a celebrant, no hand-tying ritual, no formal witnesses. Their union will not be formally recognized by any lords or ladies, nor need it be. Sansa will bear her heir, and no one will dare question the child’s legitimacy. She won’t let them. She does not owe anyone but her unborn child anything. 

This is for them. For Jon and Sansa. To pledge themselves to each other before the gods of their ancestors.

The Gods that Sansa, despite her best efforts, is starting to believe in again. 

_Beautiful Artwork done by:<https://wolvesofspring.tumblr.com/tagged/wolves+art/page/5>_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is basically just Medieval Elopement, and Jonsa has always been #married, but now they're Married.


	7. A Wolf is Born

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sansa has seen dragons fly over Winterfell and watched dead men walking, but she has never truly felt magic until now, as she counts the fingers and toes of the tiny, perfect creature she has created."

_There should be a song for women to sing at this moment, or a prayer to recite. But perhaps there is none because there are no words strong enough to name **the moment**.” _

_―_ _Anita Diamant_

\---------------------------

Sansa goes into labor on a stormy night during a full moon. 

The wind rushes outside, and the cacophony sounds like a pack of wolves. In truth, only Ghost is left to howl outside, distraught by Sansa’s cries. After an hour or so of the pitiful display, Jon finally allows Ghost into Sansa’s chambers at her insistence.

Ghost simply whines softly and nuzzles his snout in Sansa’s sweaty hair. She pets him, and it is a nice distraction from the searing, ripping, all-encompassing pain in her lower abdomen. 

As it is, the midwives are already annoyed at Jon for “crowding” her bedside, but Jon swore he would never leave his Queen’s side again, and he will certainly not do so during the birth of their child. 

He sits there stoically while Sansa crushes his hand in hers, her grip shockingly strong. He refuses to wince, not while Sansa is enduring pain he can’t imagine.

Jon Snow can remember what it felt like getting stabbed in the chest, all over his body, bleeding out in the snow with nothing but a view of the sky and a feeling of betrayal to see him off into the darkness. 

He thinks, perhaps, watching Sansa in this much pain and being useless to help is worse than dying himself. 

The midwives are speaking softly amongst themselves, so that Jon cannot hear what thy murmur. He is distracted from that by Sansa’s sudden blood curdling scream. 

The next few minutes are a whirlwind. The midwives jump into action, but all Jon can see is red. The dark red of Sansa’s damp hair matted to her face, which is contorted in misery. The dark red of the blood staining their marital bed. 

“What’s happening?” he asks desperately, fear and worry icing his chest. 

Sansa’s next contraction and accompanying groan are almost drowned out by a clap of thunder. 

The midwives ignore him. Ghost snarls. He grabs one of the woman’s arms.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” he says forcefully, then loosens his grip, “Please.”

The woman’s eyes soften. 

“The child,” she says calmly, for Jon’s sake, “is in breech.”

He squeezes his wife’s hand and strokes the hair out of her face while she pants, but he must still looks confused because she elaborates.

“The baby is upside down.”

Sansa opens her eyes at that, “Will he….will he be okay?”

Jon wants to ask Sansa why she’s so sure the baby will be a boy, but he knows now is not the time.

The oldest midwife speaks to Sansa now, “It is too late now to try to change the position naturally, the labor has progressed too far.” Sansa squeezes her eyes shut.

“We must reach in and physically move him,” the old woman, Jon thinks her name is Ailbe, says in a firm, but not unkind tone. Sansa just nods her head like she’d been expecting that.

“I wish Arya were here.” Arya had gone on a trip to Storm’s End at Sansa’s urging. They’d all thought they’d had more time. “But tell her, tell her I love her. I always have, even when we were children, and Bran, I-” she is cut off by her own gasp of pain. 

The woman washes her hands quickly and efficiently. Sansa turns to Jon, a frantic look in her eyes. “Jon, I love you, I-” she lets out a ragged keen as another waves of pain racks her body. More blood saturates the sheets. 

“If anything happens-”

“It won’t” he says firmly, with more confidence than he feels.

“Name him,” Sansa lets out a ragged breath, “name him after Robb.”

Sansa’s first child will be the heir to the throne of the North, to Winterfell. Sansa’s beloved older brother never got the chance to rule over their people the way he always deserved to, but she will make sure Robb’s legacy lives through her child when they claim their birthright. 

“Sansa-” She’s bruises his knuckles in her grip.

“Promise me.”

“I will,” He kisses her forehead, “I will.”

“Good,” she lets out a content sigh. The eye of the hurricane. The calm before the storm.

Jon kisses her forehead quickly. 

“I love you too. It’s going to be okay.”

The wizened midwife positions herself. The younger ladies prepare clean rags to staunch the bleeding. They hold Sansa down. The midwife reaches in to move the baby.

Sansa howls.

\-------------------------------

The storm has passed. The rain has stopped. The sun is peeking over the horizon, illuminating the room. 

Jon thinks he has seen battlefields with less blood than their bed, but the midwives swiftly clean everything up, and hurry the offending blood crusted sheets out of the chamber. A young lady is wiping Sansa’s face and body with a wet towel, but the Queen in the North pays it little mind. 

Sansa Stark is too busy cooing at her firstborn child. Her daughter, Allaidh, first of her name, future Queen in the North. 

All Sansa can remember from the exact moment of birth is pain and blood and thunder. She remembers feeling pain so terrible she thought to herself, _this must be how I die_ , and the last thing she saw was Jon’s pale a terrified face before she’d passed out. 

She’d come to not twenty minutes later to see Jon’s face once more, but this time beaming. Tears of joy and relief were running down his usually somber face, and Ghost’s tail wagged as he sniffed the bundle in Jon’s arms.

The bundle she now holds to her chest.

“How is he?” She’d asked, her voice hoarse and weak.

“She, Sansa. We have a daughter.” Impossibly, Jon’s smile had grown even more.

Sansa had laughed, and it sounded as giddy as she feels now.

As she holds her daughter in her arms, Jon at her side, she feels a warmth she’s never felt before unfurl in her chest. She feels euphoric, relieved, terrified, in awe. Sansa has seen dragons fly over Winterfell and watched dead men walking, but she has never truly felt magic until now, as she counts the fingers and toes of the tiny, perfect creature she has created. 

Sansa can easily recall memories of all the vile men who made designs on her body, who threatened to put their child inside of her, use her womb as political leverage then throw away whatever broken bits of her were left when the child came. 

All her life, people have told Sansa that her duty in life, her burden to bear, her blessing, her curse, was to provide heirs. Heirs for the Stark name, for her husband. She has always been the key to the North, to Winterfell, to a legacy of kings. 

But now, there is nobody to steal her child away from her, to crudely claim them. _She is beautiful, but more importantly, she is strong and she is all mine_ , Sansa thinks.

Sansa has been called a Lannister whore, Alayne Stone, a bastard, Lady Bolton, a traitor, yet she has always remained a Stark in spite of it all.

Her daughter will never be anything but a Stark either. 

Sansa sighs happily at the thought. 

“I guess we shan’t call her Robb, but she still came into this world like a young wolf,” Sansa declares. 

“Aye,” Jon runs his hand over their daughter’s surprisingly thick black hair, “I can already tell she’s going to be ferocious.” 

“ _Madadh Allaidh_ ,” Sansa whispers. It means wolf in an old language, older than the common tongue. A language that feels as powerful as the weirwood trees Sansa visits each morning. 

Jon looks at her, “Allaidh,” he repeats and smiles. Sansa leans forward to kiss him on the cheek, where she can see the remnants of his happy tears. 

“Allaidh Eddard Stark, First of her Name, Daughter of Winterfell, Rightful Heir to the North,” Sansa says, holding up their daughter, so they can both look at her properly. 

Her hair is already dark and curled like Jon’s, but she has her mother, her grandmother, and her uncle’s piercing Tully blue eyes. Sansa imagines her features will be delicate like her own, and if Jon’s predictions are correct, as ferocious, strong, and wickedly clever as her aunt. 

The one thing Sansa knows for certain is that their daughter will be loved. 

_Beautiful artwork by:<https://wolvesofspring.tumblr.com/tagged/wolves+art/page/3>_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would they call it "breech"? I don't know. But there are dragons and zombies on this show, so I think we can all suspend our disbelief at old timey people using modern language. 
> 
> Also, the name comes from Scottish Gaelic. Pronounced sort of like "Ah-lee."
> 
> Part of the reason I didn't choose a singular namesake is because there are so many dead characters for them to honor, and I think choosing a new name is a nice symbol of the fresh start for the North, for the people of Westeros, for the next generation of Starks.


	8. Nothing Gets Easier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A time jump! Next Gen Starks! Angst! OCs! Gaelic!

_“Love is the reason we grieve darling...and love is what will bring you back.”_

_-Lindsay Gibson_

_“It's just that I fell in love with a war_

_Nobody told me it ended_

_And it left a pearl in my head_

_And I roll it around_

_Every night, just to watch it glow_

_Every night, baby, that's where I go”_

_-Mitski_

\-------------------------------

Sansa sighs at a particularly large knot and finally forces the fine toothed knot through her daughter’s unruly black curls. 

“You know,” she muses, still struggling with the uphill battle at hand, “If you listened to me when I showed you and learned how to plait your hair properly, it might not get quite this bad, _m'eudail_.” Sansa’s words are admonishing, but her voice remains light.

The little girl in front of her just huffs and continues to pick at her nails. Sansa leans forward to smack her hands down lightly. “I told you not to do that, Allaidh, they’re going to scar if you keep picking at your nails and all your scabs.”

Sansa frowns towards her daughter’s bare legs which are littered with an assortment of half-healed scabs and bruises. For a minute, she considers banning her daughter from rough-housing with her Aunt and the stable boy anymore, but she can’t bring herself to do it, to either of them. Arya would be just as put out as Allaidh would be. 

“Then I’ll look more like _Athair_ ” the girl argues with a bossy indignant tone that reminds Sansa of her younger self. She wonders if she ever gave her poor Lady Mother this much trouble. If she didn’t, Arya sure did, she muses and smiles to herself, starting to hum slightly.

“Well...your Father,” Allaidh raises a thick, dark eyebrow brow in the mirror in front of them, “ _Athair_ ,” Sansa corrects, “doesn’t want you to look like a piece of minced meat before your tenth name day, now does he?”

“Your Mother’s right,” Allaidh’s bright blue Tully eyes light up as a large, snow-covered figure in black fur shows up in the mirror’s reflection, “Save your beautiful skin for when you’re older and get some real battle scars, _m'eudail._ ” 

Jon grunts and then grins as their still wild haired daughter bowls into his legs and wraps him in a hug. Sansa sets the comb down on the vanity table, watching the scene play out in the reflection in front of her. 

“ _Athhair_ !” she squeals, “ _Mathair_ said you wouldn’t be home until tomorrow,” she pouts, looking up at him accusingly. Sansa also turns around and raises a curious eyebrow at her husband, although her eyes are sparkling. 

Jon looks at Sansa as he speaks, “Ran into Tormund just North of the Castle Black ruins,” he smirks, “turns out the Wildlings got early word of the next fortnight’s festivities.” Sansa raises her eyebrows, she hadn’t bothered sending a raven so far North, and Jon had wanted to personally deliver an invitation to Tormund and his people as a sign of respect. Sansa wonders how word of mouth beat him there. Though she supposes anyone residing anywhere near the old border could have caught word from Winter Town.

Allaidh's Name Day Banquet and the combined 15 year celebration of Sansa’s coronation and subsequent Northern Independence was the only thing on anyone’s mind lately.

Everyone inside Winterfell was doing something to prepare for it, and the nearby villagers were head over heels at being invited into Winterfell to join the festivities. It would be the first big public celebration the Queen of the North had hosted since her coronation and the birth of her first child, and liege lords from all over the North were sending ambassadors to pay their respects to the Queen in the North and her heir. 

Sansa is, quite frankly, exhausted with all of the planning involved. She’d already thrown up twice this week, the anxiety turning her stomach into knots, though no one but Jon and Arya sees past her confident facade. 

“Well,” Sansa gathers her wits, remembering how much they all have to get on with, “Come, dear, let _Athair_ go,” she and Jon share a private look at this moniker. After a decade of independence, Sansa had done what she could to re-establish a traditional Northern identity. 

The Godswood had become a popular pilgrimage site since the beginning of her reign, and she welcomed people, rich and poor, from all over the North into the castle to go and worship on Winterfell’s grounds. 

As well as re-bolstering the Old Religion, Sansa has supported efforts to bring back the Old Tongue as well, at least symbolically, something Allaidh has since taken upon herself to enforce throughout the castle in little ways. 

Sansa and most people are still most comfortable with the Common Tongue, but she loves her daughter’s fierce devotion to the ancient Northern ways. Sansa fancies she is the first fully Northern Stark. So Sansa happily indulges her in using her Old Tongue word for Jon.

“ _Athair_ has to go clean up from his long journey, and _you_ ,” she glares back at the comb “still have to make yourself presentable as well.”

Allaidh groans, and Sansa eyes the dark bird’s nest of hair on top of her head and puts her hand on her stomach, feeling suddenly stressed and nauseous. Jon comes up and puts on his large, calloused hands on Sansa’s shoulder. The weight is a familiar and welcome presence. He starts slowly massaging her neck, and she leans in to the touch, bringing her hand up to grasp his own.

“I’m glad you’re back,” she whispers, and he kisses the top of her head in a common gesture, “Me too.” His voice is gruff and his hair is still damp from the melting snow still coating his traveling fur. 

“I’m ready!” Allaidh interrupts the moment by plopping herself down on the stool in front of Sansa’s chair and shoving the comb towards her. She obviously wants to get this over with so she can go run around the castle before dinner tonight. 

Some of the Northern Lords and their ambassadors are already in the castle, and Allaidh is not accustomed to, nor entirely happy having to sit relatively still at the head table in the Great Hall while their guests reside. 

She much prefers the relaxed, genial dinners where it’s just her family and Winterfell’s regular occupants, whom Sansa knows she considers the same. 

Sansa loves how her daughter has the best traits of both her and Arya. She is rowdy and fun-loving and endears herself to everyone she meets, but she is tempered by the dignity and grace and manners that Jon says she has learned from Sansa. 

One day, Sansa knows she will be a great diplomat and Queen, so she tries not to begrudge her the moments where she gets to act like nothing but a child. 

“Of course,” Sansa reaches to grab the comb, but Jon beats her to it. “Let me,” he says as she frowns, “you must be exhausted, I can finish up here, and you should go rest before we sup.”

When she continues to frown he kisses her on the cheek, “I _do_ know how to manage a comb, Sansa,” he says teasingly. She responds in the same manner, tugging at a strand of the messy black hair her daughter has inherited, “ _Do_ you, though?” 

Jon laughs and finally kisses Sansa on the mouth, making Allaidh scrunch her nose in distaste. Sansa gives her daughter a peck on the head before she leaves her two raven haired beauties to fend for themselves, but instead of heading back to her chambers to lie down like she knows Jon wants her to, she heads to the adjoining nursery where the familiar voice of her nursemaid floats to her, singing a soft lullaby in the Old Tongue, which makes Sansa smile. She pauses at the doorway, listening.

“Gille beag ò, leanabh lag ò

Gille beag ò, nan coarach thu;

Gille beag ò, gille lag ò

Gille beag ò nan caorach thu.

Gille nan caorachan, gille nan caorachan

Gille nan caorachan, gaolach thu.”

The nursemaid, Aileen, has a lovely voice, and she and Sansa have become great friends over the past few months, being close in age. 

“How are you, Aileen?” Sansa makes her presence known at last and sweeps into the nursery. 

“Guid, thenk ye, Miss.” Sansa nods, glad Aileen has finally stopped calling her “My Majesty,” though she hasn’t quite gotten comfortable simply calling her “Sansa” yet.

Sansa first met Aileen in Winter Town a few years back, when there’d been a nasty illness plaguing the residents. It wasn’t a lethal plague like she’d feared it could be, but she’d gone to make sure there was adequate supplies and infrastructure in place to assist the local healers nonetheless.

Jon had been beside himself with worry (Sansa had been somewhat more susceptible to illness since her rough birth to Allaidh), but she’d insisted on going herself. Arya had been angry at her too, but Sansa was glad she went. Aileen had taken it upon herself to organize a temporary shelter for all the sick and placed herself in charge of all the children. 

Upon talking with her, Sansa learned Aileen had had a recent miscarriage, and following that had helped nurse some of the local children, leaving her with a sense of responsibility for their well being. 

The day Sansa realized she was with child again, she sent Arya into Winter Town to offer Aileen a job in the castle. 

Now, she sits across from her rocking little 6 month old Robb. Sansa can see a lock of red hair peeking out of the hand knit blanket she’d made him when she was on bed rest. Aileen looks down at Robb too, face full of adoration. Sansa knows her son is in good hands, and it calms her anxiety on days when the stress of being a mother threatens to overwhelm her. 

Jon is a doting father, and Arya is a comfort, but Sansa never realized just how much she missed having a best friend. She misses the days when she and Jeyne Poole would rock their baby dolls together and talk about how they couldn’t wait to have children. Sansa’s stomach gives a lurch of grief for her old friend. She never found out what happened to her after her father was killed in King’s Landing. She can’t imagine anything good.

“Woods ye loch tae hauld heem?” Aileen gestures to the babe, but Sansa shakes her head. “He looks quite happy where he is, thank you,” she says, softly. Sansa is content to watch her companion and her child. 

Robb Rickon Stark has flaming red hair like Sansa which curls like her brother’s did. His eyes are deep brown like countless Starks before him, and his chubby, pale face is dotted with freckles that Sansa secretly hopes he never outgrows. Her heart is filled at the sight of him dozing in her friend’s arms. 

“And how is-?”

“Wee Theo went tae sleep ages ago, only wee robb was givin' me trooble,” she says, although they both know she could never be truly cross with him. Aileen nods towards the double crib to the right of her wooden rocking chair. Sansa stands to go see for herself. She puts her hands on the sides of the crib, looking down to see her other son. 

Little Theo Benjen Stark has always been a wild card. 

Sansa will never forget the day her sons were born. The birth was less daunting than Allaidh’s, Sansa mentally prepared for the pain of labour, the weather fine, the timing well predicted. Both Arya and Jon had been at her side the second time. Everything had gone like clock work, and after only three or four hours, Robb, a healthy, ruddy, redheaded babe had been born. Sansa swore she saw Arya start crying, but was quickly distracted when her midwife, the same one who’d delivered Allaidh had said, “Here comes the second one.”

And here Sansa had thought that nothing could’ve shocked her anymore. 

She remembers Jon clutching the newly cleaned Robb in his hands, face full of dumb, uncomprehending shock while Arya laughed almost hysterically, “You always were such an overachiever, Sansa.”

Sansa is drawn from her reminiscing as Theo wiggles in his sleep. She reaches down to brush some of her son’s sandy brown hair out of his face. It is curly like Robb and his older sister’s, but Theo’s appearance is quite different. Not only is his coloring much more muted, he has eyes like Sansa had never seen before. 

After having one child with Tully blue eyes and one with Stark brown, they’d all been somewhat shocked to see that little Theo had both. After Sansa’s initial shock at seeing one brown and one blue eye staring back at her and her concern that it was some kind of health defect, the midwife assured her it wasn’t a safety concern, just a rarity. 

As if Theo can hear her thoughts, his eyes open and she smiles at the striking effect they have, even at such a young age. 

“Hello, _mo chridhe_ ,” she whispers. She tickles his stomach, and he coos up at her, giggling. Sansa’s heart swells as it always does. Allaidh had always been partial to Jon as a baby, quieting down in his embrace like none other, and Sansa fancies she and Theo have a special connection as well. Of course, she loves her boys equally, but Robb is a most agreeable baby, who takes to and endears himself to whoever he’s with. 

Theo, on the other hand is more picky, only recently having gotten comfortable in Aileen’s care. Sansa told Jon she thinks Theo will be the most sensitive and reserved of their children. Jon had rolled his eyes, “I’m sure either Robb or Allaidh will manage to drag him into plenty of trouble when he’s older.” 

Sansa only partly disagrees. She often takes one of the twins with her for several hours, so that Aileen isn’t overwhelmed dealing with them both at once when Jon or Arya aren’t available. 

She hasn’t told anyone yet, but sometimes when it’s just her and Theo, she wanders into the Godswood, and her boy, bundled to the gills will sit with her, not making a single noise or uttering a single cry, simply staring at the white bark and the falling snow, seemingly enraptured. These stolen moments are among the most peaceful Sansa has ever had.

Theo has helped restore Sansa’s faith. Sansa figures a healthy twin boy with multicolored eyes can be nothing but a blessing from the gods of her ancestors, as rare and precious as he is. 

That along with moments where she and all three of her children are in the same room, and Sansa feels like a puzzle with all the pieces finally in place. 

When the twins had first been born, Sansa had worried about how Allaidh would react. Allaidh had been excited to finally have some younger siblings to play with, but Sansa knew it might not be what she expected. After all, the boys wouldn’t be able to really play with her until they were much older, and she’d be grown up herself at that point. Plus, Allaidh had been spoiled, for lack of a better word, her whole life. 

As the heir to Winterfell and the only child for most of a decade, Sansa knew adjusting to her parent’s divided attention might be a challenge for her. But she was happy now that Allaidh had taken it in stride. 

Allaidh liked riding and sword fighting and running and rough housing, but when she was with her little brothers, Allaidh was very serious and calm and gentle, and Sansa knew she would be an amazing older sister to them as they grew up. 

Sansa couldn’t have prayed for a better heir and was more proud than she could say.

The only time Allaidh had ever remotely complained about her siblings out loud had been one evening after leaving the nursery hand in hand with Sansa, having helped put them down for the night. She gently tugged at Sansa’s hand to draw her attention.

“Next time,” her normally fierce daughter muttered shyly, “if...if you can...I’d like a sister. Like you have _Antaidh_ Arya.”

Sansa had squeezed her hand and laughed gently. “Oh, _m'eudail_ , if there _is_ a next time, I promise to ask the Gods for you.”

Allaidh had smiled and pranced ahead in the corridor, leaving Sansa to frown slightly. She didn’t know how her mother had done it. Only three children, twice giving birth, and Sansa was certain she couldn’t possibly have another. It seemed too much to ask, too much to handle. At least as long as she had a whole kingdom to run on top of trying to be a good mother.

She wishes Catelyn was there to help her. She wishes her brothers, her father, Theon, her uncle, were all there to watch their namesakes grow up.

She lifts Theo from his crib to his great delight and nuzzles her face into his soft baby hair. Jon is right, she needs to get some sleep. She’s felt odd all week long.

Aileen’s soft hum drifts up to her, and a random wave of grief washes over Sansa, leaving her cold. A single tear drips down her cheek and lands in Theo’s curls. He babbles, ignorant of Sansa’s sudden misery, and Aileen behind her also remains unawares. 

Sansa gathers herself. Lifts her head back up, heavy as ever, even without her crown on. 

She lays her child back down. And kisses her other son on the forehead without catching her friend’s eye. She walks, somewhat stiffly back to her bed where she lays down and starts sobbing abruptly. 

Ghost, who’d been napping in the corner of the room, pads over and places himself on the bed at Sansa’s feet, giving one forlorn, sympathetic howl before laying his head on her shins.

The sun has gone down when she hears a knock at the door. “Come in,” her voice is gravelly as she clutches a pillow to her chest, hair falling loosely from its messy braid. Only after she says it, does she stop to consider it may be someone of import, but to her relief, it’s only Jon who walks in. 

“Hullo,” she mutters listlessly, “Where is she?” He knows she means Allaidh and says, “Arya roped her into a game of chess.” Sansa wonders that she isn’t mucking about the stables, but is thankful she won’t get too dirty again before supper. 

Immediately, she panics. “Supper! I...I have to get ready.” Sansa fears what she must look like, and she has no idea what time it is now, so stuck she’s been in her misery for the past hour or so. 

Jon sits down on the edge of the bed, hair, to her faint amusement, combed, and finally out of his traveling clothes. She doesn’t know when that happened.

“Sansa..” his voice is heavy, and he brushes her hair out of her face, slowly. It sends her over the edge. “Jon,” she scoots forward to lay her head on his chest, tears resuming, and he leans in to catch her and hold her shoulders as the residual sobs wrack her body. 

She is thankful he hasn’t yet asked her what’s wrong. She isn’t quite sure herself. 

Ever since the twins were born, there’s been something lurking at the back of Sansa’s mind, inside her chest, but normally she is thoroughly distracted from it. Right now, it’s all she can think about. 

Jon finally moves to speak, “I sent word to all the Lords and Ladies that you’ve been taken ill tonight, and that I, though a shabby substitute for their Queen, will be hosting them.” Apparently, Jon could tell something was off with Sansa before she herself noticed.

“But, Jon...I can’t-”

“Sansa, you have the rest of this month to wear yourself thin, just, please...for my sake...take tonight off,” he gives her his puppy dog eyes, and though there are new wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, it is effective as ever. Sansa nods slightly, fight extinguished. She leans against him harder.

“I’m so happy, Jon. I really am, I...I love them _so_ much, but I,” she shrugs, “It’s been 15 years, but I...still think about everything...about _them_ every single day, and the older I get, the worse it gets, I thought..” She pauses, and Jon patiently waits for her to finish. Her voice shakes, “I thought I’d be over it by now, but I’m not.” She has cried herself quite dry, and she feels defeated.

Jon starts to smooth her hair out with his thumb and takes a moment before responding. 

“Sansa...You’re so strong, you’ve done more for your people, for your children, for me, than anyone else could’ve in your position, but...you’re still human,” he pauses. “I haven’t forgotten anything either, I don’t...I don’t reckon either of us will ever truly forget, but _please_ , _mo ghràidh_ , don’t feel guilty for it.” Jon sighs, “You are allowed to be miserable and happy at the same time, Sansa, it doesn’t make you a bad mother.”

And that, is what deep down, has been eating at Sansa for half a year. That, in spite of all her radiant joy and love for her family, she’s felt thoroughly hollow and depressed at the same time. She feels ungrateful. Every time her subjects call her “My Majesty” and lavish her with praise and gifts or her children smile at her, she feels unworthy. 

She looks Jon in the eye, traces his scar with her thumb and nods slowly. She thinks he understands. Of course, he hasn’t given birth, nature hasn’t toyed with his emotions in cruel and drastic ways for weeks at a time, and he doesn’t wear a crown like she does. He bears no title. 

But Jon knows what it’s like to feel unworthy. To doubt yourself at every turn. To have everything you could’ve ever wanted and still feel like something is wrong. 

Jon is here now. Jon doesn’t hate her. He’s not offended that his love isn’t enough, that the love of their children just isn’t enough to stave off the grief sometimes. That Sansa has everything she’s ever dreamed of, but still lies awake at night sometimes thinking she’d give it all up just to return to the past.

“Jon, I love you.”

“I know.”

“I _love_ our children. And the North, and helping our people, I do.”

He nods.

“But I haven’t been okay. Ever since the twins were born.”

“I know.”

“I..I don’t know what to do about it, to stop feeling this way,” she slumps helplessly against his shoulder. He is always so warm, and she feels incredibly tired.

“We can figure it out...together. Let us all take care of you for once.” Sansa hums an assent, and her eyelids flutter.

For tonight, she will simply sleep, knowing that Arya will take care of Winterfell, Aileen will take care of the children, and Jon, Jon will help take care of her. 

Beautiful artwork by: <https://wolvesofspring.tumblr.com/tagged/wolves+art> (obviously not commissioned for this story though, so don't look too closely at the kids, lmao)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, my Scottish pride is popping out so much; I'm quite obsessed with the parallel between the North's fight for independence and Scottish nationalism, so all the stuff about the "Old Tongue" is just referrin to Scots Gaelic/Gàidhlig
> 
> m'eudail (maay-dul or dal, I've heard it both ways?) = my dear  
> Athair (Ah-her) = Father and Mathair (Mah-her) = Mother  
> mo chridhe (moe chree) = my heart  
> Antaidh (sounds kinda like "Auntie" in English?) = Aunt
> 
> The lullaby sung "Gille Beag Ò" translates to:
> 
> Little boy o, weak baby o  
> The little boy of the sheep you are.  
> Little boy o, weak boy o  
> The little boy of the sheep you are.
> 
> Boy of the sheep, boy of the sheep  
> Boy of the sheep, my darling you are.
> 
> ALSO, sorry for sprinkling angst in, but A) Postpartum Depression is super common and shouldn't be stigmatized B) The whole point of this fic is to showcase a realistic, bittersweet "happy" ending. I was thinking a lot about why I always liked the Hunger Games trilogy epilogue so much, and it's because the author didn't sugar coat the longevity of trauma. They're "happy" at the end, but they'll always carry the effects of trauma around with them, and happiness and depression aren't mutually exclusive.
> 
> Anyways, Thanks for Reading!


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